


Trois

by sarahgene12



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Identities, Bondage, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mild Painplay, Multiple Penetration, Multiple Personalities, Multiple Selves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-21
Updated: 2016-09-21
Packaged: 2018-08-16 14:10:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8105425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarahgene12/pseuds/sarahgene12
Summary: Javert finds himself at the mercy of all three of his arch enemy's identities.





	

Javert’s back ached. The day had given way deep into the hours of the night, and he was still here, strung up like a plucked bird, saving his neck only by the willpower of his knees. He was exhausted, but any give in his legs, dare he attempt to relieve them, meant slow asphyxiation. The blow to his head had made his vision swim; nothing stayed within the boundaries of its shape, and there were bright colors popping out like fireworks in the dark.  
The inspector shifted his weight, wincing at the bite of the pavement on his old bones. The rope around his neck creaked, tightened just a little— now there was blackness on the edges of his vision. He closed his eyes, whispering prayers more pious than he deserved.   
In the utter darkness, heavy footsteps arose. Perhaps a soldier, an ally, would come and finally set him free! The revolutionaries were all dead, surely—  
The face illuminated by moonlight was not that of a soldier. It was one he knew.   
“Ah. So here it is, then. You’ve been given your chance to kill me, again. I wondered why you took so long to take it.”  
The figure which stepped from the shadows was Jean, until recently known as Monsieur le Mayor. He was still wearing his old green coat, his faded maroon cravat; both were spattered with mud and, from what Javert could see in the dim light, copious amounts of blood which didn’t seem to be his own. He held a knife in his hand, unsheathed.  
“How right, for you to kill me with a knife.” Javert shifted his weight off of one knee to the other, twisting his hands in their bonds. As Jean approached, he tilted his head back, exposing his pale neck. His breathing was even, his heart beat was slow. He did not fear death.  
Jean’s free hand slipped between the rope and the inspector’s skin, holding the noose taut as a master might hold his beast’s strap. Javert closed his eyes.  
The rope snapped; the kneeling man fell forwards, nearly smashing his nose on the stone floor.   
Surely this was a cruel trick, any moment now the blade would pierce his skin and all would finally be silent— the old man had Javert’s forearms in a vice grip, suddenly, two great hands were lifting him effortlessly, the rope was gone from around his neck and putrid air stinking of gun smoke filled his lungs. He was lifted and set down again atop the only piece of furniture left in the place: a wobbly wooden table, covered in dust and sticky with spills of wine.  
Dazed, Javert watched his captor curiously; he was aware of a hot, wet wound in the middle of his forehead. “I don’t understand. Why haven’t you killed me?”  
Jean did not answer. His grip on the inspector’s arms became gentler, lighter. Then, he dropped his hands to Javert’s bound wrists, then his fingers danced over the backs of his hands, and he was tracing the veins there, each violet line, so tenderly upon his skin that his touch felt like a tickle of wind.  
Javert licked his bottom lip, conscious of his heart, untroubled by the promise of a bloody death, beating faster now. Jean’s hands moved again, outward to the inspector’s waist and down the outsides of his thighs. Still, he hadn’t spoken a word. Fingers splayed, palms flat, he began to slide upwards, then downwards, then upwards again, rubbing the fabric of Javert’s trousers against his skin.  
“M-Monsieur, please, stop this at once, I— if this is some sort of joke I think it’s gone f-f- quite far e-enough!”  
Jean’s right hand slipped between Javert’s legs, the fingertips capering tortuously along the inside of his thigh. His other warmed the policeman’s lower back, guiding him forward until the old man could step comfortably between his knees.   
Javert squeezed his eyes shut, trembling. He felt Jean’s hand at his back move to the collar of his shirt, where thick fingers worked the first three buttons free. The hand on his thigh slid higher.  
The inspector’s hands twisted in their bonds; the rope bit into his skin and he winced. He gasped as Jean lowered his head, and softly kissed the raw flesh of Javert’s neck. His lips burned.   
Quick, chaste kisses turned into long, slower traces of Javert’s skin, and Jean hummed low in his throat as the other man tilted his head back, allowing him to run his tongue from the bottom of Javert’s ear to the hollow between the length of his collarbone. Somewhere further away, the inspector thought he heard another’s footsteps.  
“Oh, Javert.” Jean was pressing himself against the inside of Javert’s thigh, moaning softly. His hand slipped further up between the inspector’s legs until his fingers found what they wanted, and squeezed.   
Javert cried out, the heels of his boots rapping hard against the legs of the unsteady table. He fell forward against Jean’s chest, panting, eyes wide. “Monsieur—Jean, I—”  
Jean moaned again, tugging roughly on Javert’s belt until it snapped. At the same moment, Javert felt the cold bite of a knife’s tip in the middle of his back. It pressed harder, nearly painfully. Javert tried to turn his head to identify this new captor; a hard hand slapped him cold across the face. The knife pierced his flesh just a little, and Javert cried out in pain.  
Two things happened simultaneously: the dirtied ex-mayor sprawled across Javert’s chest grabbed a quick hold onto the inspector’s trousers, yanking them down off his hips, exposing the man’s growing erection to the night air. At the same time, the man at his back thrust his knife upwards, splitting Javert’s blue coat cleanly up the middle. Two strong arms wrapped themselves across Javert’s chest—one hand was still loosely clutching the knife—and pushed the torn coat and shirt off of his shoulders and from around his waist, until an even thicker bundle of cloth restricted his bound wrists. Then the unseen man sawed away at these, destroying Javert’s uniforms, sending buttons scattered across the floor. When this stranger held him fast again, he was nearly naked, forced back across the table both by the other man’s strength and Jean’s hand on his belly.  
Jean moaned softly, lowering his head and gently nudging Javert’s swollen arousal with his cheek. His other hand moved upwards, and he closed his palm around the inspector’s cock, felt Javert tremble, and squeezed, stroking downwards. His cheeks were flushed, his breathing uneven, and he licked his lips once at the sight of Javert, exposed and aching. His tongue darted out and teased the tip, eliciting a desperate sob from the tethered policeman.  
Javert’s knuckles were white, his fingernails cutting his palms, his thighs trembling with the effort of staying open wide enough to accommodate Jean. The man holding him tightly, more efficiently than any chains, buried his fingers in Javert’s hair, and pulled hard, forcing his head back onto this unknown captor’s shoulder.   
What little he could see of this man struck horrid realization into his heart. There was a brief glimpse of a coat—wool, perhaps—blue, with red lapels and gold buttons. Impossible.   
The man was panting into Javert’s ear, his voice different than Jean’s, rougher; his hair tickled Javert’s cheek. Warm lips closed around his earlobe and nipped sharply, and he jolted, drawing another moan from Jean, who was still carefully teasing Javert into complete arousal.   
Before he could recover from the shock, the lips parted - not to release the soft flesh but to make room for the tongue. Javert shivered, and the breath in his ear grew harsher still. The gentle licks changed into a suckling pressure, lips closing around the earlobe and drawing it between them. The grip about his shoulders tightened.  
Now, if only for a distraction, Javert looked down at Jean. He watched Jean's tongue tease him, felt it in every nerve ending. The hand stroking him was rough, callused, and Jean's tongue mercilessly played with the tip, which was red and swollen. He felt desperately ashamed and aroused in equal measure, unable to see how any of this could possibly be real.  
Jean gazed up at him, watching his every reaction when he let him slip from his mouth and began slowly licking up and around the hot shaft, not ceasing the strokes of his right hand for a moment.   
Javert could feel himself reaching the edge, pressing himself back against the other man, feeling the buttons of that frighteningly familiar coat dig into his skin. The wool scratched him, the buttons hurt, but he pressed further backwards, the pain cleared his head just a little, but Jean stroked faster, licked and sucked harder, drew him deeper into his throat than seemed possible. He could feel what little control he had left crumbling hopelessly, and he let out an impassioned sob, filling Jean's eagerly sucking mouth.  
This was a point in which Javert knew dignity was out of reach, and he was left panting for breath, his body still shuddering from the force of his climax. It was a slow, gentle stroking of the place between his hip and thigh which eventually drew him back to reality. Jean rose to look at him, and shame colored the inspector’s cheeks.  
The old man smiled softly, and leaned down to kiss the corner of Javert’s mouth. In the same instance, the other man released his fingers from Javert’s hair; his palm flattened against the gently thrumming chest, and he moved his cheek against Javert’s. “Your heart is running wild, dear Inspector.”  
Javert drew in gulps of cool night air. Madeleine's voice was like honey pouring over his skin, and the man’s hand lay right over his heart which was indeed, beating very hard.  
Madeleine's hand lingered there for a long time. When he finally moved his hand, his fingers teased a hardened nub before his palm came to rest over it.  
It was hard to tell which of them was breathing faster. The force of Madeleine's hand held him close, and then began to circle slowly, the teasing touches to his sensitive flesh purposeful now, growing more firm the more the skin hardened. He became more and more aware of Madeleine's scent, of the strong beat of Madeleine's heart at his back, and it took all his willpower not to press back to feel it more intensely.  
When Madeleine's right hand was joined across Javert’s naked chest by his left, the night air stirred the exposed flesh into even greater sentience. He looked over the Inspector's shoulder, watching his hands trace pale flesh, and the tangles of grey hair in the middle.  
Madeleine whirled him around with tremendous strength and pressed him back against the table, which rocked portentously. He stood up fully, chest heaving, every slightest movement causing the burdened table to hum in protest. He raised one black-booted foot, bringing it down again on the other side of Javert’s hip.   
Then he lowered himself back down, effectively straddling the naked Javert.   
Javert was trapped in his arms, trembling against the body scorching him even through cotton and wool, tender lips nudging his own apart breath by breath until the tip of Madeleine's tongue could explore the gentle swell of his bottom lip. The mayor's hands were in his hair again. With a whimper, Javert tried to push him away.  
His mouth took Javert's hungrily while his fingers caressed the bared chest. When he at last released the open mouth, he bent his head to kiss the warm flesh reverently. He kept his eyes closed while exploring the area thoroughly, hungry to taste more skin, feel more of the inspector's heartbeat against his tongue.  
Over Madeleine’s head, Javert noticed with a start that the other Jean, the man of the revolution and the sewers, was still in the room, watching silently, but not without an expression of satisfaction bastardizing the welcoming countenance. And now here was the man of the city, the man who left gold pieces in children’s wooden shoes. It was a different face, surely a different body, but somehow, the same man.  
Madeleine tightened his grip and shifted one leg forward a little.  
Javert let out a tiny gasp, offering a momentary opportunity for Madeleine's tongue to slip between his lips and seek out his own.   
Madeleine's groan rang through the Inspector's very bones, and the hands in his hair tightened even further, the leg against his groin pressed harder, and Madeleine's knee slipped between his legs. Javert couldn't stop his escaping whimper, or the way his body arched.  
"Yes, that's it," Madeleine sighed between kisses. One hand slipped skillfully around the side of the rope around Javert’s wrists, resting on a hip to draw the inspector's body close while pressing his leg forward even harder. Javert’s body stirred, and the mayor nudged his thigh forward in small movements, kissing a mouth gone slack with renewed arousal.  
Javert was shaking; husky encouragements whispered into his open mouth and breathed against his skin made him want to surrender, yet again.   
"Don't fight me," Madeleine coaxed. His other hand slid downwards and slipped behind Javert’s thigh, giving his leg more room to tease the inspector into full hardness for the second time. "Yes!" he gasped.   
Somewhere beyond their entangled bodies, something made of glass was shattered, and the room darkened slightly. Javert noticed this only through the curtain of Madeleine’s hair, covering both their faces and tickling his cheek.   
Madeleine rocked against him, slowly, then he moved lower, pressing hot kisses over his stomach, his tongue tracing circles around his navel.  
Javert arched his back, then realized he was all but begging Madeleine to pay attention to his arousal.  
He rose again, placing a quick kiss on Javert’s chin. Then the mayor's mouth was close enough for their breaths to mingle when he began to rock against him in earnest.  
Javert sucked in a desperate breath, straight from Madeleine's lips, and Madeleine rocked up again, his groan shuddering against the inspector’s parted lips. The exchange of breath, more intimate even than a kiss, heightened every other sensation between them. Their hips, where wool grew hot and clung to bare skin, met ever more fiercely.  
Javert whimpered. He answered the force, arching up against Madeleine, who twisted his hips slightly and caught the policeman's cry in his open mouth.  
He jolted when Madeleine's hand moved underneath him, the palm pressed flat against his perineum while his middle finger nudged, ever so carefully, against his hole. The strange sensation felt less strange for the boneless lassitude taking over his body, and he knew it was what Madeleine was counting on when he continued to press there, his finger wriggling very slowly a little way inside.  
Madeleine's mouth had released him at last, now kissing away flecks of his seed from his hipbones, sucking at a spot here, a spot there, on his inner thighs, spreading his legs further and pushing his thighs higher and closer to his body. Then, the finger stopped pressing suddenly and night air cooled the new space between them.   
Unaware until now that his eyes had been squeezed shut, Javert opened them to find out why he was suddenly chilled.  
Madeleine had moved back, still sitting atop the inspector, his chest heaving, his mouth wet—but his expression had changed. To his left, a new man had approached the table where Javert lay absolutely undone.  
The blood rushing through Javert’s body turned to ice. This third man was filthier than Jean, caked in mud and grime and soaked through with seawater. His head had been clumsily shorn. There was a blackened brand upon his chest. His tattered tunic bore the unmistakable numbers.  
“No.” The inspector pleaded with his mind for this latest apparition not to be true, for this man to not really be here, to not really be raising a bloodied fist over his head, a terrible rotten grin stretching his pallid face into a mask.  
Valjean’s broad chest was heaving, and his breath came quickly through parted lips. His dark eyes seemed nearly black, glinting with a terrible light which struck cold fear into Javert’s heart. Like the inspector, he was naked from the waist down, and it was obvious why he was there.   
Madeleine maneuvered himself away from the table without being asked, and as soon as he was gone Javert wished desperately for his return. For instead of climbing onto the rickety piece of future in Madeleine’s place, Valjean walked around it until he was behind the Inspector, who tilted his head back so he could still see the most unwelcome third incarnation of Jean Valjean.   
He was, at this point, the youngest Javert has ever seen him, perhaps the age he was when he first arrived in Toulon. His arms, chest, and stomach were solid, unmarred by age or injury and was perfect as a figure carved from marble. His hands were the only ugly part of him.   
He wrapped one of them around Javert’s throat, and squeezed hard. Javert gasped, and it was then Valjean acted, grasping the policeman’s shoulder tight with the other hand and pulling him forcefully from the table, onto the floor.   
Javert’s bones sang when he hit the ground, cold now and naked in the dirt and rubble of the decimated café. He couldn’t trust his legs to support him, and his wrists were still tied; Madeleine’s careful preparations of his body left all his limbs like jelly, and now he was helpless to Valjean, who was quickly drawing nearer, pulling his filthy tunic over his head. He was indeed much younger, undoubtedly the man whom Javert had guarded for nearly twenty years, yet with a different face. The eyes were darker than Javert remembered.   
“I am not afraid of you,” he whispers, unable to manage more than that. It is a lie. He manages to push himself up onto his knees and that is when Valjean strikes; the convict grabs the inspector’s shoulders and shoves him back against the wall; his head collides with a solid beam of wood but there is barely time to register this before Valjean pushes himself into Javert’s gaping mouth.  
Tears well in Javert’s eyes and he’s nearly choking, and when Valjean begins to thrust in earnest every movement sends his head slamming back into the wall. Yet even with the pain, even with his mind reeling at the possibility that he has invented these three men, Javert is aware of his body responding yet again to this abuse—that he enjoys even this.   
Valjean is grunting, forcing himself deeper into the inspector’s throat, becoming all the more urgent as the seconds pass. The fading light of the room is broken now and again with bursts of light behind Javert’s eyes; he thinks he feels something hot and wet trickling down the back of his neck. He might soon go unconscious, and can only imagine what Valjean might do to him then.   
Madeleine has returned, and Jean; the moment the young prisoner reaches his peak, he withdraws from Javert’s mouth and the inspector recoils, feeling the hot spill of Valjean’s seed spatter on his cheek and chin.   
He stumbles forward from the wall and it is Madeleine who catches him. Somehow he manages to stand, thinking perhaps now he might be allowed to leave.  
Valjean is now lying on his back on the floor, one hard-skinned hand crudely forcing himself back into arousal. He stares directly at Javert as he does this, and a shiver, equal parts fear and lust, nearly topples the inspector again.  
Jean is no longer dressed, and his features are no longer kind; he appears to be following instructions from Valjean, who gestures for him with his free hand to stand nearly against the wall, behind Valjean’s crudely shaven head. Madeleine pulls the inspector around, forcing him to turn his back on the other two, and Javert realizes with a shock what is about to happen.  
Valjean’s hand reaches upwards from behind, tracing his rim damply before pushing inside.  
Javert's neck arches, the blood is rushing in his ears, and he moans helplessly. And then he feels himself spread open by Valjean's thumb; Madeleine kneels in front of him as Javert’s knees buckle, and the wet length of the mayor's tongue pierces his flesh. His toes curl, his arms stretched out at his sides until every muscle in his legs tighten nearly to the point of pain. There is a trace of embarrassment somewhere in the emotions swirling through his racing blood, but the tender wriggling inside his body, Madeleine’s sucking and soft moans accompanying them, more than neutralize it. The mayor is relentless, and when he too begins to slip a finger into the slowly widening hole, alternating with his tongue, Javert realizes he is being stretched as well as aroused.  
The inspector could feel the strength leaving his legs. His erection almost pains him, but before he can even ask it be paid attention to, Valjean’s meaty hands grasp his hips and pull him downwards, hard; the low growl which escapes the prisoner’s lips prompts Javert to wrap his own hands around himself. He feels himself filled completely by Valjean and unwillingly calls out, his throat raw.  
His legs are weak. He leans backwards as Valjean pumps into him, pushing Javert downwards on his cock until the sound of their flesh smacking together mingles with the inspector’s desperate moans. And Javert rides him, matching the rhythm of the younger man’s hips with his as best as he can, and it’s already too much and now Madeleine has pushed away his hands from his cock and replaced them with his own; they are softer, the palms are flesher. He works quickly up and down Javert’s quivering shaft, his eyes— the color of pond water—locked on the Inspector’s. His knuckles push into Javert’s belly every time the policeman rocks forward.  
Valjean’s guttural growls become louder, and one of his hands moves from Javert’s hip to his chest, pulling him back until he is laying completely prone. He bites down hard without warning on Javert’s shoulder, the inspector screams, and he is being fucked so roughly now he’s nearly thrusting himself into Madeleine’s face, the muscles in his back feel like they’re tearing, again and again Valjean hits the spot deep inside him he never believed existed.  
He closes his eyes for a moment and when he opens them again Jean is above him, one leg on either side of Javert’s head. His greying curls are damp and his cock is dripping precum; as slowly as Javert thinks he can bear, he lowers himself into his old adversary’s accepting mouth.  
Javert’s throat still burns from its earlier abuse, but he takes all of Jean that he can, sucking in his cheeks. Jean is panting, driving slowly in a rhythm different than Valjean’s, who has abandoned any considerations of the man he holds fast on top of him and nearly throwing Javert about with his force. It is an animal sound escaping the prisoner’s lips, more high pitched now and Javert can tell he’s nearly there.  
Jean’s growing need nearly chokes him—the old man’s knees make popping sounds in his ear. Madeleine’s hand strokes more forcefully, and at the same moment Javert feels himself release, Valjean plunges into him with a roar, Jean’s cock hits the back of his throat, and Javert gags—his field of vision turns brightest white, and for a moment he is convinced he has somehow perished.  
When he is able to breathe again, he opens his eyes. The three men have vanished, the night is black, and he is no longer in the Café Musain.   
Every inch of his body aches; the bed sheets have been torn from the corners of the cot. His head swims, and his skin is swimming in sweat.   
Javert lies back, feeling beaten and bruised. For a moment he contemplates taking himself in hand, though the sheets are already ruined. But he stops, resting his fingers instead on one sticky thigh.  
As he closes his eyes to the crumbling ceiling above him, he thinks for a moment he hears movement outside his door.   
Glass breaking.


End file.
